


Thrillseeker

by Archaeopteryx_Feather



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Spy thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeopteryx_Feather/pseuds/Archaeopteryx_Feather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name is 'Warp. Skywarp." As a newly minted special agent, Skywarp must plumb the deadly secrets of a tropical paradise to defeat a ruthless Autobot shadow organization and its sinister agents.  The catch?  He'll have to do it without the help of Starscream and Thundercracker, his ex-wingmates...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrillseeker

**Author's Note:**

> This story was concocted during a James Bond reading binge, and I tip my hat to Ian Fleming for all the inspiration.

“To reach the Three Seekers Cafe, you gotta fly down Nodial Tube 28, then pull out at the Tondrome Exit and take an immediate up-left. (But there's no turnoff beacon anymore, so keep sharp.) From there, look on the right for a holoplayer repair shop and a dancing studio. Between them, you'll find an alley which ends in a staircase; head down that and you can choose from the widest selection of fuels in the city. It's kind of spendy. Flyers only.”

Or so said Skywarp's friend, who swore by the place. It took three passes before they found the holoplayer repair shop (the dance studio had shut down and was up for rent), and by then Starscream was losing his patience.

"Does it even matter where we go?" the newly minted Group Leader demanded. "All I want to do is to put fuel in my tired body. I don't care where it comes from!"

"You wanna celebrate your promotion with barracks fuel, oh Group Leader? Be my guest," said Skywarp, hoping that would shut Starscream up. It didn't, but they found the cafe shortly afterward. Starscream was still griping as they walked down the stairs.

The interior of the cafe was folded into an awkward "L," with the wing on the right devoted to dancing and the wing on the left to tables. Two musicians were playing on a firelit stage in the center, one on the flaps and the other on the clatterdrums. The mech on the flaps sang a nostalgic song that fit well with the long, hooting keens of his instrument, and each drawn out note made the dancers sway. A banner with an upside down Decepticon sigil hung prominently on the wall above the bar, a nod to the patriotism which had characterized Vossian establishments since the liberation. Firebowls in blue, purple and orange lit the cafe in garish color.

They threaded their way over to a table and sat down at an empty table. Skywarp glanced around and took in the other other occupants of the room. The crowd was mostly Seekers with a few Skyraiders, Cloudkings and a Dagger thrown in for spice. A pair of triads was playing Ones and Zeroes in the corner.

“I'm gonna put in a request,” Thundercracker said, gesturing at the band. “Be right back.” He got up and headed over to the stage.

Skywarp turned his attention to the holomenu, which stretched out almost across the table when he expanded it to full size. Now his problem was no longer lack of selection, but indecision. It was a pleasant dilemma.

“Not bad,” Starscream said, examining his side of the display.

“Better than the barracks, huh?” Skywarp teased. “Told ya.”

Starscream flagged down a waiter. “Scorching Blitz, make it a quadruple fusion,” he said.

The waiter nodded, then turned to him questioningly.

“I haven't decided yet,” Skywarp said.

“At your leisure.”

A moment later the waiter returned with Starscream's cube, a horrific concoction that was positively orange with engine cleaner. Skywarp shuddered at the thought of that mixture corroding its way down his lines, but Starscream took a sip and dulled his optics with pleasure.

The song came to an end, and Thundercracker returned with a satisfied look.

"What'd you put in for?” Skywarp asked.

“Oh, just something I’ve been wanting to hear for awhile. Woah, this is some menu. What did you order?"

"I haven't decided yet. There's two I like, and I don't know which one to get." Skywarp indicated his choices to Thundercracker.

"You want me to get one and you can get the other?" Thundercracker suggested.

Skywarp had hoped Thundercracker would say that. “Oh, that would be—”

"Don't let him mooch off of you," Starscream said.

"Who says I'm mooching?" Skywarp protested. He decided to throw Starscream for a loop. "In fact, since I'm in a good mood, I'll not only pay for his fuel but yours too--just to lighten your mood, sir."

Starscream looked slightly mollified at the underused title, and muttered his acquiesance. Delighted at having put Starscream under obligation to him for a change, Skywarp waved down the nearess waitress, an obsolete but well maintained Skyraider femme with a cute face and a disappointingly chunky body.

"I'll have a Zi Sky and my wingmate will take a Cracked Rainbow. Highest grade you got," he said, transmitting money and a ration waver to the cantina's account.

They were duly impressed by the speed of the service--such were the privileges of Starscream's new rank. The femme filled a green tinted energon cube and mixed in additives: minute traces of metal deactivators and thermal stabilizers topped off with a double dose of static dissipater. She deftly wrapped the cube in black grippy tape and placed it before him with a smile.

Skywarp thanked her and admired her wings for a moment, then turned his attention to the drink. Without the green tint to the casing it would have been a pastel sky color, but the touch of emerald made it turquoise. He took a tentative sip. The stuff was smooth, strong and static-free, the kind of stuff that was a pleasure to have linger in one's systems for a couple days. But beyond that the taste was unfamiliar; it had an exciting flicker that made him savor the mouthful he had taken in, and it felt cool in a way he couldn't readily put into words.

"How's yours?" he asked Thundercracker.

"Not bad. Wanna try?"

They traded cubes and Skywarp sampled his first Cracked Rainbow. It tasted of lubricants and anti-foamer, sharp and pungent and clear. He was reminded of a place he had visited once in Crystal City--which of course explained the name. It had been almost thirty years since he had tasted anything made in that style. Good to see it was making a comeback.

"Let me try," Starscream said, pointing to the Zi Sky.

“Broaden your palate, Screamer,” Skywarp said, indicating that Thundercracker should pass it to Starscream. “What do you think?”

Starscream sampled the turquoise cube. He sampled it at length. “I like it.”

Skywarp nodded and drew it back possessively. Starscream slugged down the last of his orange concoction, called up the menu and tapped the menu's “Zi Sky.”

"Zi Sky; that's a funny name," Thundercracker remarked absently, his optics resting on the band.

"I hear it means ‘island sky,’" the Skyraider said, returning with a tray full of additives which she placed on the table along with Starscream's cube. "This is an offworld blend."

"Really," said Skywarp. "How'd they make it?"

"Ask the Autobots. This is captured stock."

"Mm, I like it even better now," he said, grinning.

Without warning something jarred Skywarp’s chair from behind. He turned around.

"Excussshe me, I am commmin' through," slurred an unfamiliar beige and brown Seeker, threading his way past. Skywarp caught a glimpse of the other's face and their optics met briefly, but then the mech turned and hurried out the door. Something about the other Seeker's voice awoke a curious feeling of deja vu, but Skywarp could not place the colors. The other Seeker had seemed familiar, somehow...

A deep sigh from Thundercracker interrupted his thoughts. Skywarp turned back and found that a melancholy expression had settled over his wingmate's face. The musicians were playing a slow, sweet song that he remembered—“Enraptured in Your Optics.” Skywarp counted up the months till the triad's next furlough. _Poor TC,_ he thought. _Four months till you can see her again._ He decided his friend needed a distraction.

"Wanna get in on a game?" he asked, pointing to the group playing Ones and Zeroes in the corner. “I think they just finished.”

"Count me in," Thundercracker said. He gulped down the last of his cube and stood.

"You gonna join, Screamer?” Skywarp asked. “This could be your lucky night."

Starscream (who had no poker face) shook his head and pulled out a datapad—probably stuffed full of disciplinary reports, casualty lists, energy conservation memos and the like. Skywarp felt less envious of the fact that Starscream now outranked him by 4 numbers. What good was all that rank if it meant spending all one's free time working?

Skywarp went over the the game table, sat down in a free chair, and waited to be dealt in. Thundercracker took a seat next to him.

"Look at poor Starscream, reading at his own promotion party," Skywarp said, thumbing over his shoulder.

"Oh, I don't feel sorry for him."

Skywarp glanced backwards and found the waitress smiling sweetly at Group Leader Starscream as she offered him a tray of free samples.

He turned away in disgust and collected his hand. Who wanted an old outdated Skyraider anyway?

 

*        *        *

 

The rain-grey beach was empty that morning. Only the sea scrabbled up onto the sand, clung for a moment, and then slid back exhausted into the depths. With each wave a new layer of flotsam came to rest on the shore--shiny black nutstones, rotting frogfruit, shell fragments, bits of twigs, leaves, trash and occasionally the gelatinous remains of a sea phantom. Spiny blue pefos scrabbled hungrily through the bounty, their hinged metal feet shuttling food up into their mouths. They had been trapped in their rock holes since the previous evening, when a flock of gulls had come and chased them indoors. Then the storm had hit and they been obliged to remain there for the night. Now, in the early morning, before the gulls returned, was the time for feeding.

A pefo scuttled for its hole as a large creature washed up on the beach. The newcomer superficially resembled a matte-black fish, but upon closer inspection it had a darkened headlight where its eyes should have been and its tail was a propeller half-dug into the sand. In utter silence the fish began to split apart. Black hands and feet sprouted from new grown limbs. A head poked out, sporting a lamp upon its forehead. There was no light in the lamp, nor any glow in the optics, though a slight glimmer of blue could be seen in the dull lenses.

The streamlined mech rose cautiously into a crouch and looked towards the wall of waving vegetation that stood against the grey sky. There, just before the border of trees--the hut. The leaning metal shack stood alone on the sand, its solitary window facing him.

He crept forward until he was hunched beneath the window. For a moment he waited, listening. The only sound was the hard spatter of rain on the roof and the wind whipping the trees. A shroud of hair vines tickled the rusty metal with each wet gust.

After a moment the mech peeked in. Behind the rain-smeared pane the interior of the hut was dark. He could just barely make out the yellow and teal giant recharging on a roll-out mat, one arm wrapped around the trim white _femmeen_ who was his mate.

Sending a repaint of Optimus had been a neat trick on the Decepticons' part; at first nobody had suspected that the hulking brute who superficially resembled a maskless Prime could be a Decepticon agent. But the "Prime" had asked too many questions of the wrong person, and suspicions had been aroused. The organization had followed him, watched who he contacted, and taken down names—no need to let the Decepticons know their agent had been compromised.

But that was before. Exactly twelve hours ago, 'Con Prime had poked his nose in where it didn't belong, and now he had to die.

The Autobot knelt in the sand and took out a tiny spheroid that superficially resembled a nutstone. A grim smile played about his lips. Beach erosion, he reflected, could be murder on the real estate values. He twisted the halves of the nutstone between his fingers, as if trying to crack it open. There was a minute click, then he nestled it against the flimsy wall of the bungalow. The noise of the rain drowned out the tiny sound that might have warned the Decepticon agent that he had only thirty seconds left to live.

The mech rose and stole down the beach. Cold surf hissed around his legs as he waded into the water. Fifteen seconds now. The surf was up to his waist, and he laid down and slipped smoothly into the dark waves. Ten seconds. His sleek form rose and fell with the surf as he swam. At last he was deep enough to transform. His legs drew together and his arms flattened against his sides. Head into torso, hands in, feet in, propeller out. Eight seconds. The dull black submarine slid underneath a wave. Five seconds. A school of golden metal jottos, attracted inland by the storm, surrounded him and pecked at his hull. Four seconds. Three. Two. One.

From behind came a muted roar. The fish scattered like shrapnel.

Satisfied, the Autobot angled around and headed back towards shore. He surfaced and looked over the scene. The hut's walls were scattered down the beach, and ocean water was already churning into the crater. A few burning pieces that might have once belonged to the recharge mat were embedded in the sand. But where were the unit's occupants?

After a moment he picked out the greyed corpse of the Prime lying face down in the surf, his limbs rocking with each toss of the waves. And the _femmeen_? He spotted a sprawled figure lying under a charred piece of wall. At first glance she looked dead, but the morning light could make white look grey.

For a moment the Autobot hesitated, then transformed and swam back to shore. Directly his feet touched the sand, he drew a small laser pistol from his arm compartment.

He went to the _femmeen_ and overturned the flimsy sheet of metal. The white Decepticon gave a soft groan, her spider-webbed red optics meeting his jet black ones. The Autobot aimed carefully and fired one shot. She greyed out.

There was the sound of a gull chortling--morning was coming, and soon there would be beachcombers going over the pickings left by the storm. The Autobot took a seared piece of wall and dragged it up the beach, leaning it against the hairy trunk of a frogfoot tree. He withdrew a spray can and outlined a rough sigil in red. Beneath it he wrote: "Wake up Xotch! Death to Dcons! --Redclaws." The paint bled down the rusted wall and stained the sand.

Without a further glance, the Autobot stalked back into the surf, transformed, and disappeared into the depths. Gulls laughed as they began to peck at the still forms.


End file.
